The Promised New Age
The dawn is still asleep in the east.
Don't dupe us we are marching
toward the promised new age.
We can't cross the summit in one go.
The hollow bamboos and dry blades conspire
to drug us in our own name.
The summer loo batters the parched land.
The yellowed fields in May and June
will not green. It's never vernal here.
The palm-leaf fan can't quench the flame.
The vultures of the pre-liberation decades
are picking potatoes from a rotten heap.
The city is cowered dog dazzling in neon.
The fight against evils and rots
with the anarchy of flags and slogans.
The flood in the Brahmaputra will turn men into fish.
They are not aware though I dream of the vast
land of lotus shining with young morning sun.
(Composed on 31 May 1980.)